LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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MANY MANY MOONS 



MANY MANY MOONS 



A BOOK OF WILDERNESS POEMS 



BY 

LEW SARETT 

n 



WITH AM INTRODUCTION BY 

CARL SANDBURG 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1920 



CoPYaiGHT, 1930 
BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



MAR 30 1320 



BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY 



©CI;A585419 



TO 

MY WIFE 

MARGARET 

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 



j;tl!" 'smoq 

•ni.-ioijij i^rfi^:-! () iO 
PREFACE .rl)m ,--;.^h ;>n:u 

The specific words and phrases which the Americai^fT 
Indian utters in song and ceremony are few ai^ frajg^ij 
mentary. In their original forms of expi^Sj^ion,],^^;) 
utterances of Indian dance, song, and ritual '^fe Xtft^^r, 
crude and inadequate. Literal translation, th§pj^^Te, 
will rarely reveal the emotional and ideational cpnte|]tj^j 
of a ceremony. For example, the only words futtefjej^- 
in the course of a long and richly meaningful scaiprf 
dance song may be the following: 

" I am dancing in the sky, 
I am dancing in the sky 
With a Sioux scalp." 

The few fragmentary phrases may be repeated over 
and over again, interspersed with apparently mean- 
ingless syllables and ejaculations. The meager phrase 
in a medicine song may be slight in its denotation; 
it can represent merely the peaks of an emotional 
flight, or it can merely symbolize a great situation. 
Yet if the fragmentary ideas be interpreted against 
a background of legend, or supplemented by the ac- 
companying incidents of the dance, — its music, pos- 
tures, gestures, and vocal embellishments, — if they be 
refracted through the prismatic glass of Indian imagi- 
nation, the few words that are uttered may suggest 

vii 



viii PREFACE 

a great colorful complex of ideas and emotions. The 
poems of Indian theme in Parts I and III of this 
volume, therefore, are in no sense literal translations 
of original utterances of aboriginal song and council- 
talk ; they are, rather, very free, broad interpretations. 
I have endeavored to interpret most broadly the origi- 
nal Indian motives through their suggestive connota- 
tions, — in the light of Indian symbolism and mys- 
ticism, of the mythology and superstition involved, 
and of the attendant ceremonies. 

Although I have been very free in my interpreta- 
tions, I have endeavored to maintain steadily and 
accurately the consciousness of the genuine American 
Indian of today, his peculiar mental and emotional 
slants. I have sought, moreover, to maintain con- 
sistently the point of view of the modern reservation 
type of red man, — more copper or bronze than red, — 
who in his present transition from the primitive wild 
life to the new civilization offers a paradoxical amal- 
gam or mosaic of the old and the new, the ideal and 
the material, the majestic and the grotesque. 

The romantic red man in the picturesque setting 
of war-dances and ambuscaded prairie schooners has 
gone the way of the builalo, the flintlock, and the 
stone-ax. With him has gone much of the romantic 
beauty of the wild yesterdays; the old glory of the 
lawless Indian frontier has grown a bit faded and 
tawdry. Yet in the life and the aspirations of the 
red man of today, and particularly in the character 
of the more remote, primitive Northern woods Indian, 
there is a new, strange, often bizarre beauty which, 



PREFACE ix 

because of the economic and social complexities cre- 
ated by modern reservation life, is infinitely more 
colorful and kaleidoscopic than that of the old roman- 
tic days. In this transitional type of the Original 
American there is a rugged charm distinctive of the 
New World, and of the race of pioneers that struggled 
here to beat back the v^^ilderness and to fling out the 
borders of a new civilization. About this bronze fig- 
ure, the symbol of our vanished West and of our 
beaten borderlands, hovers a wild poetic beauty as 
peculiarly American in fragrance as the redolence 
of burning pine, or the odor of a cornfield after rain. 
Beneath the drab surface of the modern transitional 
type of Indian in his semi-civilized setting of the 
reservation there is comedy, cosmic tragedy, and a 
wealth of literary materials that are epic in sweep. 
Consider the pathos of his desperate struggle of three 
centuries to stem the tide of a subtle, irresistible civili- 
zation, to withstand the ravages of the white man's 
diseases, to beat oflF the packs of astute grafters who 
were ever ready to pounce upon him as wolves upon 
a wounded deer. In the great drama enacted in the 
American wilderness these bronze stoics have played 
every role, — hero and villain, hunter and hunted, vic- 
tor and vanquished ; yesterday defiant, imperious, bat- 
tling victoriously with naked hands against storm and 
wind and snow and cyclone, against man and beast 
and hunger and pestilence; today poverty-stricken, 
servile, making their exit in the West and the North, 
a handful of broken people, a thin line of bedraggled 
figures in the twilight, straggling across the desert 



X PREFACE 

with muffled footfall into the Valley of Night to the 
ultimate companionship of the stars. 

In much of the seeming cacophony of the modern 
Indian's music there is lyric poetry. In the primitive 
dances to which the pagan elder folk have clung so 
tenaciously, and in which today the Indian sings his 
soul out of its rags back for a moment to the old 
glory of the wild days, there is a pungent, elemental 
charm. Rugged dignity and power mark his council 
oratory. A pagan spiritual beauty glitters in all the 
religious rituals that express his cosmic theory; for 
his pantheistic conception of the phenomena of nature 
is sublime in its personification of the wilderness, in 
its humanization of earth and sky and water, of beast 
and bird and reptile, of the flash of the lightning, the 
rumble of thunder, and the roar of the big winds. In 
the supernatural world created by his imagination 
there is a weird mysticism; for the Indian walks 
through life ever beckoned by unseen hands, ever 
communing with the ghosts of the unseen spirit of 
beast and devil and god. 

His life is not, however, wholly in shadow; it has 
its high lights of comedy and humor. There is humor 
in his naive attempts to adapt himself to the white 
man's mode of living with its baffling machines and 
its incomprehensible customs; sometimes a ludicrous 
incongruity in his domestic environment with its ag- 
glomeration of primitive birch-basket and battered 
alarm clock, papoose cradle and broken sewing ma- 
chine, — ^the latter often purchased as a thing of orna- 
ment rather than of utility, — quaint stone pestle and 



PREFACE XI 

mortar and the badge of affluence, that sine qua non 
of Indian aristocracy, the cheap talking machine eter- 
nally playing its one record. There is unconscious 
humor, and often subtle wit, in much of his talk, and 
in his modern dialect, a hybrid language in which the 
simple dignity of the old poetic diction is now shot 
through with the mixed idioms, the crudities, and the 
twisted phrases of borderland slang and of French- 
Canadian patois. The comedy in his character, — 
largely the humor of grotesqueness, inconsistency, and 
paradox, — is best suggested perhaps by the incongrui- 
ties of the costume which he often wears at some 
idealistic old ceremonial dance; a nondescript outfit 
composed of buckskin moccasins and conspicuous 
white man's underwear, beaded medicine bag and 
shoddy trousers, eagle feathers and a battered derby 
hat. 

It is the spirit of this more modern type of Indian, 
— and particularly of the more remote Northern woods 
Indian of Algonquian stock, — with his peculiar an- 
achronistic combination of the primitive and the mod- 
ern, the tragic and the comic, the ideal and the real, 
the romantic and the drab, the spiritual and the 
material, — it is the spirit of this transitional type of 
red man which I wish to catch in Fart I and Part 
III of this volume. I desire, furthermore, not only 
to catch the spirit of the woods Indian, but also, 
through the nature poems in Part II, to capture some- 
thing of the atmosphere of the Indian's environment, 
of his setting of the Northern wilderness. ^ If, there- 
fore, the poems in this book convey in some degree 



xii PREFACE 

the wild beauty of the North, and of its wilderness 
folk, a beauty so inadequately expressed by the printed 
word, I shall be most happy. If they do not thus 
succeed — it was Walter Savage Landor — was it not? 
— who said, " There is delight in singing, though none 
hear beside the singer." 

Although a few of the poems in Parts I and III 
presuppose on the part of the reader some knowledge 
of the American Indian, most of them will readily 
yield their meaning without the aid of supplementary 
notes. I have incorporated in each poem most of 
the special information concerning Indian folk-lore 
of which the casual reader may not be informed. 
Likewise, the correct pronunciation of the various 
Chippewa words which are used is made clear by the 
accents and the phonetic spelling; and their meanings 
may be readily grasped from their context. However, 
for the benefit of the reader who may be interested 
in further details concerning the ceremonials and 
legends that lie at the foundation of certain of the 
poems, I have added a brief section of expository 
comments in the Appendix, beginning on page 71. 
I suggest that the reader glance at these supplementary 
notes before reading the poems in Part I and Part III 
upon which they bear. 

I wish to take this opportunity to express my deep 
gratitude to Miss Harriet Monroe, the editor of 
Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, to Mr. Carl Sandburg, 
and to Professor Stuart P. Sherman of the University 
of Illinois for their encouragement and their helpful 
suggestions, and to many other friends for valuable 
criticisms. Lew Sarett. 



CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Preface vii 

Introduction. By Carl Sandburg . . . xv 

PART I 
FLYING MOCCASINS 

The Blue Duck 3 

Chippewa Flute Song 8 

The Squaw-Dance 11 

Beat Against Me No Longer .... 16 

The Conjurer 18 

Red-Rock, the Moose-Hunter .... 22 

Rain Song: Motive I 25 

Rain Song: Motive II 26 

Rain Song: Motive III 28 

PART II 
LONE FIRES 

The Loon 33 

God Is AT the Anvil 34 

Philosophic Frogs 35 

The Wolf Cry 37 

The Cabin on the Cliff 38 

The Fog-Bell 39 

The Granite Mountain 40 

Dakotah .42 

The White-Throat 43 

Refuge 44 

Swamp-Owl 45 

Of These Four Things I Cannot Write . . 46 

The Great Divide 48 

xiii 



XIV 



CONTENTS 



PART III 

CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

A Group of Indian Council Talks 

The Winds of Fifty Winters 
Chief Bear's-Heart " Makes Talk ** 
Little-Caribou Makes " Big Talk " . 
Whirling-Rapids Talks 
Appendix . . ... 



51 
55 
59 
62 

71 



INTRODUCTION 

Books say Yes to life. Or they say No. " Many 
Many Moons " says Yes. 

Picking classics in contemporary books is like pick- 
ing winners in baseball or durable forms of govern- 
ment among nations. One man's guess is as good as 
another's. 

We might say, " Herewith is entered Lew Sarett 
and * Many Many Moons ' as a runner for a place 
among the classics." And it would be only a guess. 

However, there is nothing in the stipulations of 
the Espionage Act nor in the Code of Chesterfield 
nor in the Marquis of Queensbury rules, that stops us 
from asking: 

*' Why not have the loam and the lingo, the sand 
and the syllables of North America in the books of 
North America ? " 

And so Sarett . . . with tall timber, freshwaters, 
blue ducks, and a loon in him. The loon, a poet's 
bird for sure, is here. Unless there is a loon cry 
in a book the poetry is gone out of it. We have too 
many orderly, respectable, synthesized poets in the 
United States and in England. In their orientation 
with the library canary fed from delicatessen tins, 
they are strangers to the loon that calls oflf its long 
night cry in tall timber up among the beginnings of 
the Mississippi. 

XV 



xvi INTRODUCTION 

Sarett has equipment. Years a forest ranger and 
a wocKlsman, other years a wilderness guide, com- 
panion of red and white men as an outrider of civili- 
zation, university instructor, headline performer at 
western Chautauquas, magazine writer, he brings wis- 
dom of things silent and things garrulous to his book. 
Old men with strong heads and shrewd slow tongues, 
young men with tough feet, the wishing song of mate 
for mate — they are here. The loam and the lingo, 
the sand and the syllables of North America are here. 
" Many Many Moons " says Yes. 

Carl Sandburg. 



NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Of the poems in Part I and Part III of this book, 
many were first published in Poetry: A Magasine of 
Verse. The author is indebted to the editors for 
permission to include them in this volume. For the 
privilege of reprinting other copyrighted poems in this 
book he wishes to thank the editors of the following: 
Reedy's Mirror; The Outing Magazine; The Stratford 
Journal; The Argosy Magazine; Others; Outdoor 
Life; Birds and Nature Magazine; the Nature-Study 
Review; American Forestry; Outer's Book and Recre- 
ation; The Farm Journal; The Pagan; The Boston 
Transcript. 

L. S. 



PART I 
FLYING MOCCASINS 



THE BLUE DUCK ♦ 

Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! To be read 

tt: I Tj- 1 tt: I tr: i ^^'/t a vigorous 

Hi ! Hi ! irli ! Jrll ! ;./^ emphasizing 

Hee-ya ! H6i-ya ! the drumbeats. 

Hee-ya ! H6i-ya ! 

Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Ma-ni-do, 

The hunter-moon is chipping, 

Chipping at his flints, 

At his dripping bloody flints ; 

He is rising for the hunt. 

And his face is red with blood 

From the spears of many spruces, 

And his blood is on the leaves 

That flutter down. 

The Winter-Maker, White Bee-b6an, 

Is walking in the sky, 

And his windy blanket 

Rustles in the trees. 

He is blazing out the trail 

Through the fields of nodding rice 

For the swift and whistling wings 

Of his She-she-be, 

For the worn and weary wings 

* See Appendix, page 71, for supplementary comments con- 
cerning "The Blue Duck" and other poems in this group, 
Part I. 

3 



4 FLYING MOCCASINS 

Of many duck — 

Ho ! Plenty duck ! Plenty duck ! 

Ho ! Plenty, plenty duck ! 

Hi ! Hi ! More slowly 

XT' i TT- j and quietly, 

XT.1 . XT.1 . verging on a 

Hi! Hi! chant 

Hi! Hi! 

Hoy-eeeeeee ! Ya ! 

Hoy-eeeeeee ! Ya ! 

Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Ma-ni-do, 

The seasons have been barren. 

In the Moon-of -Sugar-Making, 

And the Moon-of-Flowers-and-Grass, 

From the blighted berry patches 

And the maple-sugar bush, 

The hands of all my children 

Came home empty, came home clean. 

The big rain of Nee-bin, the Summer-Maker, 

Washed away the many little partridge. 

And good Ad-ik-kum-aig, sweet whitefish, 

Went sulking all the summer-moons. 

Hiding in the deepest waters, 

Silver belly in the mud, 

And he would not walk into my nets ! Ugh ! 

Thus the skin-sacks and the mo-kuks 

Hang within my weeg-a-wam empty. 

Soon the winter moon will come. 
Slipping through the silent timber. 
Walking on the silent snow, 



THE BLUE DUCK 



Stalking on the frozen lake. 

Lean-bellied, 

Squatting with his rump upon the ice, 

The phantom wolf will fling 

His wailings to the stars. 

Then Ween-di-go, the Devil-Spirit, 

Whining through the lodge-poles. 

Will clutch and shake my teepee, 

Calling, 

Calling, 

Calling as he sifts into my lodge; 

And ghostly little shadow-arms 

Will float out through 

The smoke-hole in the night — 

Leaping, tossing shadow-arms. 

Little arms of little children, 

Hungry hands of shadow-arms. 

Clutching, 

Clutching, 

Clutching at the breast that is not there. . . 

Shadow-arms and shadow breasts. . . 

Twisting, 

Twisting, 

Twisting in and twisting out 

On the ghastly clouds of smoke. , . . 

Riding on the whistling wind. . . . 

Riding on the whistling wind 

Riding on the whistling wind , 

Starward! . . . 

Blow, blow, blow Kee-way-din, North Wind, 

Warm and gentle on my children, 



To he chanted 
from this point 
on — slower in 
rate — higher 
and higher in 
pitch — mount- 
ing to melan- 
choly wailing. 



A sustained 
wailing chant, 
gathering power 
steadily. 



6 FLYING MOCCASINS 

Cold and swift upon the wild She-she-be, 
Ha-a-ah-eee-ooo . . . Plenty duck ... 
Ha-a-a-a-ah-eeee-ooooo . . . Plenty duck. . . . 

Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Faster— with a 

Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! %hT'"' 

Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Ma-ni-do, 

Blow on Ah-bi-too-bi many wings; 

Wings of teal and wings of mallard, 

Wings of green and blue. 

My little lake lies waiting, 

Singing for her blustery lover; 

Dancing on the golden-stranded shore 

With many little moccasins, 

Pretty little moccasins, 

Beaded with her silver sands, 

And with her golden pebbles. 

And upon her gentle bosom 

Lies Mah-no-min, sweetest wild-rice, 

Green and yellow. 

Rustling blade and rippling blossom — 

Hi-yee ! Hi-yee ! Blow on Ah-bi-too-bi plenty duck ! 

Ho! Plenty, plenty duck! 

Ho! Plenty duck, plenty duck! 

Ho! Ho! 

Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! 
Hee-ya! H6i-ya! Hee-ya! H6i-ya! 
Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Ma-ni-do, 
I place this pretty duck upon your hand; 
Upon its sunny palm and in its windy fingers. 



THE BLUE DUCK 7 

Hi-yeee ! Blue and beautiful Faster, louder. 

Is he, beautifully blue! tt^ t^' 

Carved from sleeping cedar with abandon. 

When the stars like silver fishes 

Were a-quiver in the rivers of the sky ; 

Carved from dripping cedar 

When the Koo-koo-koo dashed hooting 

At the furtive feet 

That rustle in the leaves — 

Hi! And seasoned many moons, many moons, 

Ho! Seasoned many, many, many sleeps! 

Hi-yeee! Blue and beautiful 

Is he, beautifully blue! 

Though his throat is choked with wood. 

And he honks not on his pole, 

And his wings are weak with hunger. 

Yet his heart is plenty good. 

Hi-yee! His heart is plenty good! 

Hi-yee! Plenty good, plenty good! 

Hi-yee! Hi-yee! Hi-yee! His heart is good! . . . 

My heart like his is good! Brokenly and 

brusquely. 

Ugh! My tongue talks straight! 
Ho! 



CHIPPEWA FLUTE SONG 

To he chanted softly and monotonously in a high 
pitchj with a dowmvard inflection at the end of every 
sentence and at other places where the voice naturally 
falls. 

Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo ! 
My little Pigeon-Woman, 

For you alone as I float in my little birch canoe in the 
purple twilight, 

I am singing, I am calling 

on my little cedar lute tenderly. 
For you alone, for you alone I am playing 

on my little yellow flute mellowly. 
And though the singing of my throat is like the 
grumping of the frog 

at night among the water-lilies, 

yet the notes from my cedar Bee-bee-gwun 

are like silver bubbles in the moonlight. 
Therefore why do you hide away from me like the 
timid little fawn 

that peers tremblingly at me 

from yonder bending willows, 
My little Pigeon-Woman, 
My Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 

8 



CHIPPEWA FLUTE SONG 9 

Hah-eeeeeeeee-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-00! 

From the clouds of purple twilight on yonder shore 

the wailing loon is calling, calling, 

calling for his woman drearily. 
And I am also calling 

on my little yellow flute wearily. 
In the dewy glade of yonder valley 

the whip-poor-will is crying for his mate; 
In the somber lonely shadows of the timber 

the melancholy owl is also calling. 
But the owl and the whip-poor-will 

do not hear an answer 

to their many, many callings — 
Nor do I hear an answer to my melody. 
The meadow-lark is fluting his golden song; 

and from the lilied meadows 

other golden notes come floating back to him 

like little golden bells. 
And though the meadow-lark does not sing more 
tenderly 

than my little yellow flute, 

you do not answer my callings. 
My little Pigeon-Woman, 
My Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 



Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo! 

And now the purple wings of the night 
are softly folded down 
upon my sleeping little lake, 
and the sighing silver balsams. 



10 FLYING MOCCASINS 

The cooing wood-dove has slipped her sleepy head 

beneath her downy wings; 

and the hermit-thrush 

with his running-water notes 

will pipe his song no longer. 
The eyes of the many little stars are peering down 

upon me from the sky steadily; 
And the wan and sickly moon is smiling yellowly at 

me — ~' 

I do not like the many little peering eyes, 

I do not like the smiling yellow moon; 

I love the sun that dances down the sky 

with a swirl of scarlet robes, 

her head flung back over her shoulder, 

a taunting smile on her vermilion face. . . . 
And now the flutings of my little Bee-bee-gwun avail 

me no longer; 
For you have flown away from me, you have flown 
away from me t 

like the sun that slipped down behind the willows 

trailing her purple veils behind her 

on the shimmering waters of my lake 

and over the edge of the world. 
But tomorrow the sun will come back to me, 

the sun will come back tomorrow, 
My little Pigeon- Woman, 
My Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 



THE SQUAW-DANCE 

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom, 
Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum. 
Hoy-eeeeeee-yah ! Hoy-eeeeeee-yah ! 
Shuffle to the left, shuffle to the left, 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left. 
Fat squaws, lean squaws, gliding in a row, 
Grunting, wheezing, laughing as they go; 
Bouncing up with a scuffle and a twirl, j^ ^^ ^^^^ 
Flouncing petticoat and hair in a whirl. rapidly with 
Rheumatic hags of gristle and brawn, and%ncopaicd 
Rolling in like a ponderous billow; dance rhythm. 

Fair squaws lithe as the leaping fawn, — 
Swaying with the wind and bending with the willow; 
Bouncing buttock and shriveled shank. 
Scuffling to the drumbeat, rank on rank; 
Stolid eye and laughing lip. 
Buxom bosom and jiggling hip. 
Weaving in and weaving out, 
Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! with a laugh and a shout, 
To the beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom, 
Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum; 
And a shuffle to the left, a shuffle to the left, 
A shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left, — 
Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

II 



12 FLYING MOCCASINS 

Medicine men on the medicine drum, 

Beating out the rhythm with a steady thrum. 

Medicine gourd with its rattle, rattle, rattle, 

Flinging wild with the call of battle. 

Beaded drummers squatting in the ring 

Leap to its challenge with a crouch and a spring; 

Weathered old bucks that grunt and wheeze 

As they jangle bells on their wrists and their knees,— 

Shining new and olden bells, 

Silver, copper, golden bells, 

Cow-bells, toy bells, ringing sleigh-bells. 

Beaded dance bells, " give-away " bells, 

Jingling, jangling, jingling bells, 

Set-the-toes-atingling bells, 

To the beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom, 

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum ; 

And a shuffle to the left, a shuffle to the left, 

A shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left,— 

Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

Old bucks stamping heel and toe. 
Ugh ! as they snort and they cackle and they crow, — 
Yowling like the lynx that crouches nigh. 
Howling like the wolf at the prairie sky; 
Growling and grunting as they shift and they tramp, 
Stalking, crouching, — with a stamp, stamp, stamp, — 
Sleek limbs, lithe limbs, strong and clean limbs. 
Withered limbs, bowed limbs, long and lean limbs; 
Flat feet, bare feet, dancing feet, 
Buckskin-moccasined prancing feet. 
Eager child- feet, scuffling feet, 



THE SQUAW-DANCE 13 

Feet, feet, feet, feet, shuffling feet! 

Hi ! Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom. 

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum ; 

Shuffle to the left, shuffle to the left, 

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left,— 

Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

KEE-WAY-DIN-d-KWAY, THE " NORTH-WIND-WOMAN," 
SINGS : 

" I have a pretty present for Mah-een-gans, 

For * Little-Wolf ' I have a pretty medicine bag. 

Broidered upon it are many little beads 

In many pretty patterns of wild lilies, — 

Yellow beads and beads of the color of the cornflower. 

Through the many winter moons 

I labored on this token of love; 7^ ^^ chanted. 

In this gaily patterned medicine bag 

I left my weary eyes and my worn fingers. 

Now I wish * the Wolf ' to dance with me in the ring. 

Hi ! Beat, beat upon the drums, old medicine men ! 

Dance ! Dance in the ring, my people, and sing ! " 

{Ho! Ho! . . . Hi-yah! Hi-yah!) 

Tx* '1 I TT' 'ui With a lilt and 

Hoy-eeeeeeeee-yah ! Hoy-eeeeeeeee-yan ! ^^^^^ rhythm. 

Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom. 

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum, 

As a bouncing breast and a lean long thigh, 

Caper to the ring with a whoop and a cry, 



14 FLYING MOCCASINS 

And shuffle to the left, shuffle to the left, 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left,— 
Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

MAH-EEN-GANS, THE ** LITTLE-WOLF," SINGS: 

" I have a present for the * Wind-Woman,* 

A present equal in value to her medicine bag. 

Ho! A pretty present, a mi-gis chain Dance ceases— 

Of many little mi-gis shells,— '^''''*' 

As beautiful as the ' North-Wind-Woman.' 

My chain of shells will shimmer on her breast 

As the little silver brooks that tinkle 

Down the moonlit bosom of yonder mountain. 

Now I wish the woman to dance with me in the ring. 

Hi ! Beat, beat upon the drums, old medicine men ! 

Dance ! Dance in the ring, my people, and sing ! " 

Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom, 

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum. 

Medicine gourd with its rattle, rattle, rattle. 

Ringing wild with the call of battle. To he read 

Rheumatic hags of gristle and brawn, '''^oulming'' 

Rolling in like a ponderous billow ; iance rhythm, 

Fair squaws lithe as the leaping fawn,- %iit'^^' ^''^' 

Swaying with the wind and bending with the willow. 

Bouncing buttock and shriveled shank. 

Scuffling to the drumbeat, rank on rank. 

Old bucks stamping heel and toe, 

Ugh ! as they snort and they cackle and they crow, — 



r 



THE SQUAW-DANCE 15 

Sleek limbs, lithe limbs, strong and clean limbs, 

Withered limbs, bowed limbs, long and lean limbs ; 

Flat feet, bare feet, dancing feet, 

Buckskin-moccasined prancing feet; 

Shuffle to the left, shuffle to the left, 

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left; 

With a crouch and a spring and a grunt and a wheeze, 

And a clanging of bells at the wrists and the knees, — 

Shining new and olden bells, 

Silver, copper, golden bells — 

Feet, feet, feet, feet, scuffling feet! 

To the drumbeat, drumbeat, beat, beat, beat — 

Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! 

Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah! 



BEAT AGAINST ME NO LONGER 

Ai-yee! My Yellow-Bird-Woman, 
My ne-ne-moosh, ai-yee! my Loved-One, 
Be not afraid of my eyes! 
Beat against me no longer! 
Come! Come with a yielding of limbs! 
Ai-yee! Woman, woman, 
Trembling there in the teepee 
Like the doe in the season of mating, 
Why foolishly fearest thou me? 
Cast the strange doubts from thy bosom ! 
Be not afraid of my eyes ! 
Be not as the flat-breasted squaw-sich 
Who feels the first womanly yearnings 
And hides, by the law of our people, 
Alone three sleeps in the forest; 
Be not as that brooding young maiden 
Who wanders forlorn in the cedars, 
And slumbers with troubled dreams, 
To awaken suddenly, fearing 
The hot throbbing blood in her bosom. 
The strange eager life in her limbs. 
Ai-yee! Foolish one, woman. 
Cast the strange fears from thy heart! 
Wash the red shame from thy face! 
Be not afraid of my glances! 
x6 



BEAT AGAINST ME NO LONGER 17 

Be as the young silver birch 

In the Moon-of-the-Green-Growing-Flowers— 

Who sings with the thrill of the sap 

As it leaps to the south wind's caresses ; 

Who yields her rain-swollen buds 

To the kiss of the sun with glad dancing. 

Be as the cool tranquil moon 

Who flings off her silver-blue blanket 

To bare her white breast to the pine; 

Who walks through the many-eyed night 

In her gleaming white nudeness 

With proud eyes that will not look down. 

Be as the sun in her glory, 

Who dances across the blue day, 

And flings her red soul, fierce-burning, 

Into the arms of the twilight. 

Ai-yee! Foolish one, woman. 

Be as the sun and the moon! 

Cast the strange doubts from thy bosom ! 

Wash the red shame from thy face! 

Thou art a woman, a woman! 

Beat against me no longer! 

Be not afraid of my eyes! 



THE CONJURER 

Come ye, spirits three! To be chanted. 

Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North 1 

Rise ye, ma-ni-do, from your weeg-a-wams 

In the corners of the earth ! 

Blow, blow, blow thy raging tempests 

Through the ranks of whining pine! 

Come ye! Come ye to my chee-sah-kan 

Riding on thy crazy-running winds. 

Hear! Hear my potent chantings! 

Bestow me the strength to work my conjurings! 

Hi ! Take ye my good medicine. 

This precious skin of the jumping-rat 

Killed in the hour when death, 

When purple death walked into my lodge, — 

And three m-oons, three moons dried 

On the grave of my youngest son. 

Hi! Hear me! Hear me, ma-ni-do! 

Come ye, spirits three! 

Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North ! 
Hi! Blow, blow, blow thy whirling winds! 
Sway my wigwam, sway it 
With the breathings of the cyclone! 
Hi! Bend its birchen poles 

i8 



THE CONJURER 19 

Like the reeds in yonder bay! 
Hi ! Clutch my teepee, bend it 
Till its peak shall scrape the ground! 
Hear me ! Hear me, ma-ni-do ! . . . 

• • • • • 

How! How! Brokenly, con- 

Behold ! my friends, it bends IT-tZf-^'ti" 

Like a lily in the storm! the audience. 

Come ye, spirits three! To be chanted. 

Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North ! 

On the wings of the wind send into my lodge - 

The lean spirit of a lean coyote — 

Of the dying prairie wolf whose whimperings 

We followed many sleeps across the desert. 

Make him, ma-ni-do, fling up again 

His last long mournful wailings 

When thirst and hunger clutched 

His withered aching throat — 

That the old men of my tribe may hear 

Again his ghostly callings as of old. 

Hear me ! Hear me, ma-ni-do ! . . . 

* « • • • 

How ! How ! Conversa- 

TT I T^i- • iionally in an 

Ho! Ihere is a power "aside." 

In my precious ratskin! 

• • • • • 

Come ye, spirits three ! To be chanted. 

Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North! 
On the wings of the wind send into this lodge 
The spirit of Sings-in-the-Hills 



20 FLYING MOCCASINS 

Who walked to his death in his birch canoe 

Over the falls of the Cut- Foot Waters. 

Blow his spirit into my lodge, 

That his aged father who sits without 

May hear his voice again. 

Hear me! Hear me, ma-ni-do! 

Make his ghost to talk from my lodge 

That the people who watch my juggling 

May know his voice again. . . . 

• • • • • 

How ! How ! Conver- 

Hear, my people? sationally. 

My medicine-skin is strong with power! 

• • * * • 

Hear ye, spirits three ! To be chanted. 

Go ye back to thy weeg-a-wams 

In the corners of the earth! 

Into the East, into the West, into the North ! 

Leash again the wolves of the wind. . . . 

To thee, O Ma-ni-do of the East, 

This handful of burning balsam 

Which I fling on the dying wind; 

To thee, O Ma-ni-do of the West, 

This handful of yellow medicine. 

Powder of precious clays; 

To thee, O Ma-ni-do of the North, 

This red-willow twig whereon I have rubbed 

My potent medicine ratskin. 

Go ye back, ye ma-ni-do. 

To the comers of the earth! 

Hah-eeee-yooooooooooo ! 



THE CONJURER 2i 

. TT I Conver- 

How! How! sationally. 

Enter ye the teepee, my friends 1 
Unbind ye the basswood cords from my body! 
I am done I 
How ! How I 



RED-ROCK, THE MOOSE-HUNTER 

Bronze in the rose-dusted twilight, 
A statue of bronze, arms uplifted, 
He stands ankle-deep in the lilies 
As rigidly fixed and as silent 
As a red granite butte on the prairie. 
As still as the dusk in the foot-hills — 
" Ugh ! Red-Rock, big hunter-of-moose ! 
Red-Rock, him fool-um old bull! 
Red-Rock, big moose-killer ! — Ugh ! " 
Bronze in the tranquil sunset, 
Statuesque bronze in the willows. 

A sudden rush through the lilies; 

A splashing of flashing limbs. 

Shattering his mirror of silver, — 

Juggling his gold-glinted rainbows, 

And flinging them into the winds; 

A sudden swoop through the waters, 

A sudden scoop of the hands, — 

And bronze in the copper twilight. 

With arms uplifted he stands. 

Statuesque bronze in the lilies — 

" Red-Rock, big caller-of-moose ! — Ugh ! " 

Dripping, dripping, dripping 
Blue-shimmering drops through his fingers; 

22 



RED-ROCK, THE MOOSE-HUNTER 23 

Dripping, dripping, dripping 

Thin tinkling streams from his palms; 

Plashing, plashing, plashing 

Cupped handfuls of silvery waters 

Splashing among the lilies, — 

Black bronze in the purple twilight, 

Statuesque bronze in the night — 

" Red-Rock ! Big hunter-of-moose !— Ugh ! " 

A long low call from the valley; 

A bellow, an echoing bugle 

Mellow and deep with the passion 

Of lone longing male for his mate: 

" Hark ! Hark ! sweet One-in-the-Lilies ! 

Ho! my Splashing-One ! Ho! 

I come! — with my limbs aquiver! 

I come ! — with a straining of flanks ! '* 

Beat-beating, beat-beating, beat-beating, 

Long-loping feet in the forest ; 

A clashing of horn in the timber, 

A crashing of hoofs in the brush, — 

A splash in the placid bayou, 

An eager nose to the air. 

And lo ! a palpitant bellow, 

A wild-ringing rapturous blare ! . . . 

Black bronze in the cool blue moonlight! 
Black statuesque bronze in the night! 
Cupped hands to the stars uplifted, — 
Dripping, dripping, dripping 



24 FLYING MOCCASINS 

Thin tinkling streamlets of silver, 
Soft-plashing fountains of silver, 
Shimmering-blue sprinklings of silver — 
" Red-Rock ! Big killer-of-moose !— Ugh ! " 



RAIN SONG 

Motive I 

God of the Thunders, Thunder-God, To he read with 

Hear thou our medicine rattles ! t'afofZnc. 

Hear ! Hear our sounding drums ! rhythm. 

Hi ! Our medicine bag on yonder rock 
Has a power, a big-good medicine power — 
Three silver scales of the Great Sea Monster — 
Ho ! Big rain-medicine ! Strong rain-medicine ! Ho ! 
Ugh ! Behold ! On the rock by the stream the Beast 
Has placed three scales from his slimy belly — 
Ho ! Big medicine ! Ho ! Strong medicine ! — 
Silver scales of the Big Sea Monster! 
Hi! Spirit-of-Thunder, come in thy fury, 
Come with thy wet winds, come with thy many waters ; 
Come in thy wrath against thy foe 
That taunts thee there with his filthy poison. 
All the children of the earth are good, 
Heap-good in the heart to the Thunders; 
All the children of the earth are bitter — 
Ugh! — bitter to thy foe, the Demon! — 
We spit! — Behold! we spit on him! 
Come with a heart that is good to thy children — 
Ho ! And big-many waters and heap-much rain ! 
Come with a heart that is bad to our enemy — 

25 



26 FLYING MOCCASINS 

Ho ! And big-much lightning, plenty-big storm ! 
Ho ! Silver-wing God, with thy swift wet feet, 
Come ! Come ! Come in thy big black war clouds ! 
Hurl thy arrows of flashing flame ! 
Rush at our foe with thy whirlwind waters! 
Crush with thy storms the stinking beast 
That defies thee here with his slimy poison — 
Ho! Big medicine! Ho! Strong medicine! — 
Silver scales of the Big Sea Snake! 

Ho! 

Motive II 

Hah-yee ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 

God of the Thunders, Thunder-God, Dance rhythm 

Hear thou our medicine rattles ! ^^^f/^'^ ^^^^^^ 

Hear! Hear our sounding drums! minor wail. 

Two moons the mountain brooks have been dr}% 

And the panting birds like ghosts in a row, 

Sit in the shade and sing no longer. 

Our Brother, the Sun, can find his face 

No more in the shining-glass of the river; 

His eyes see nothing but yellow cracked mud 

As wrinkled as the skins of our old women ! 

Eagerly the sunflower lifts her mouth to the dew, 

Yet her lips parch and her head droops, 

And her leafy arms grow thin and wither ! 

Ai-yee! Thunderer, Spirit of the Big Waters, 
With burning tongues all the children of the earth — 



RAIN SONG 2*7 

The flower-people and the hungry grasses, 
The sky-flyers and the water-walkers — 
All, all are calling, calling, calling to thee ! — 
Hear! Hear our many, many callings! 
Hah-yee ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 

Thick with hot dust the old men of the forest 

Stand with bended heads, complaining wearily, 

Grumbling ever at the hot winds, 

Mumbling ever of the beating sun. 

Among the brittle pines the fires run 

With many swift feet through the crackling bushes; 

And the deer, like whirling leaves in the wind, 

Scurry madly before their scorching breath. 

The sweet wet grass of our valley-meadows 

Is blown by the hot winds into powder; 

And our ponies nibble at rustling rushes. 

Like the papoose that puts its hungry mouth 

To the scrawny breast of an old squaw, 

The corn thirstily sucks at the earth — 

In the blistered earth there is dust, dust! 

And my brothers talk with thick hot tongues, 

And my people walk with skinny bellies, 

And die like the burning grass of the prairies! 

Ai-yee ! Thunderer, Spirit of the Big Waters, 
With parching mouths all the children of the earth — 
The many- foot- walkers and the belly-creepers. 
The timber-beasts and the all-over-the-earth- 

walkers — 
All, all are calling, calling, calling to thee ! 



28 FLYING MOCCASINS 

Hear ! Hear their many, many callings ! 
Hah-yee 1 Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 

Ugh! 
Ugh! 



Motive III 

Hah-yaaaaaaah ! Hah-yaaaaaaah ! To he read with 

Hah-yaaaaaaah ! Hah-yaaaaaaah ! with tile Ult Zd 

God of the Thunders, Thunder-God, the steady beat 

Hear thou our medicine rattles! rhytitm 

Hear ! Hear our sounding drums ! 

Hi-yee! Behind the clouds on the far horizon, 

Beat, beat, beat on thy crashing war drums! 

Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! To the war-dance beat, 

Shake the earth with thy stamping feet ! 

Over the fires of the blazing sky 

Fling thy blankets of thick wet mist! 

Roll from the hills the wet gray fog! 

Blow from the hills the cool wet winds ! 

Hi ! Come ! Come ! Come, thou God of the Thunder ! 

Come on thy whirling winds from the West! 

Come with a rush of thy wings of silver! 

Crush our foe with thy tramping feet! 

Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! With thy flame-plumed war club, 

Crack the skies in wrath asunder; 

And pour from thy hand through thy silver fingers 

Cool sweet- waters on the panting earth ! 



RAIN SONG 29 

Ho! Winged-One of the rumbling rain clouds, 
With thy war drums, sky drums, call thy Water- 
Spirits. 
On thy serpent- foe — we spit on him ! — 
Let loose thy fire-flashing Thunder! 
Ho! Big Tornado! Ho! Thou Cyclone! 
Rouse from slumber, dash from the North! 
Ho! Big Hand-Walker, who goes head down, 
With twirling legs that walk in the sky. 
Come over the plains with thy trailing hair 
Of tangled winds and twisting rains ! 

Ho! Thou God of the Thunder-drums, 
Pour from thy hands the many-many waters: 
Ho ! Rains like clouds of silver lances. 
Cool long rains that slant from the West; 
Rains that walk on gentle little moccasins. 
Softly slipping from the fogs in the East; 
Cold white rains from the Land-of-Winter, 
Dripping in the trees, beating on the birchbark ; 
Soft rains, gray rains, rains that are gentle. 
Swift rains, big rains, rains that are windy^- 
Rains, rains, many-many rains! 

Hi! Thou God of the Sounding Thunder, 
Split the clouds with thy club asunder! 
Come! Come! Come with thy stamping feet! 
Hi! Hi! Hi! To the war-dance beat! 
Bitter in the heart to the Great Sea Monster ; 
Bitter to our foe; bitter to his poison — 



30 



FLYING MOCCASINS 



Ho! Big medicine! Ho! Strong medicine! 
Silver scales of the Big Sea Snake! 

Ho! Ho! 

Medicine Man to the Assembled Tribe: 



Go to thy wigwams, my people. 
Already the morning star is high. 
Sleep with untroubled hearts. 



Conversation- 
ally in a 
matter-of-fact 
tone. 



Come tomorrow to the dancing-ring ; 

The doctors will then dance the Thanks-Song. 

Bring presents — Ho ! — and plenty grub ! 

Medicine Man to a Fellow Medicine Man: 



Ugh! Lame- Wolf! . . . Tobacco! . . . 

Ugh ! . . . I spit on your red-willow tobacco ! 

It has no teeth ! It is for squaws ! Brusquely. 

Give me your white man's tobacco-r— 

The black stick with the stuck-on silver dog! . . . 



Ho! 



PART II 
LONE FIRES 



THE LOON 

A lonely lake, a lonely shore, 
A lone pine leaning on the moon; 
All night the water-beating wings 
Of a solitary loon. 

With mournful wail from dusk to dawn 
He gibbered at the taunting stars — 
A hermit-soul gone raving mad, 
And beating at his bars. 



33 



GOD IS AT THE ANVIL 

God is at the anvil, beating out the sun ; 

Where the molten metal spills, 

At His forge among the hills 
He has hammered out the glory of a day that's done. 

God is at the anvil, welding golden bars; 

In the scarlet-streaming flame 

He is fashioning a frame 
For the shimmering silver beauty of the evening stars. 



34 



PHILOSOPHIC FROGS 

A congress of bullfrogs jowl-deep in the slime, 
To the droll moon was croaking its notions of rime. 
And puffy with pride each wight in the throng 
Expounded with vigor the charm of his song: 

" Gr-rump ! Gr-rump ! " bellowed Green-back, " I 
sing of the mud ; oh, the beautiful, beautiful 
mud ! " 

And he flopped his big belly — ker-plunk! — in the 
clay with a heave and a terrible thud. 

"Quite r-right! Quite r-right!" rejoined the 

philosophic band, 
" Sing of the true, the real, of the common thing 

at hand." 

" Ker-r-r-chug ! " piped Yellow-Vest, " I sing of the 

slimy pond; 
Eternal Beauty is there, and not in the moons 

beyond." 

" Yer-r r-right ! " quoth Plunk, " but don't be silly ; 
Praise not the slime, but its fruitage, the lily." 

35 



36 LONE FIRES 

" Get along-ng-ng ! though flowers are sweet," 
scoffed Blink, " we'll not concede a jot ! 

Vermin nest in the hearts of flowers; all lilies 
are touched with rot ! " 

" Jug-o'-r-r-rum ! " croaked Puff, " why sing of the 

stars, so cold, remote, and high ! 
I pray to a closer, warmer light; I sing of the 

firefly ! " 

And thus deriding the heavenly host, this tribe with 

vocal might 
And philosophic grunt held forth through many a 

summer night. . . . 

Autumn marched in with its bluster and blow; 
And winter rushed down with a whirling of snow. 
The swamp-world lay dead and th* amphibian choir 
Slept songless and lean in the beautiful mire. 
Where the muck-rooted lilies and slender reeds 
Were a mess of rank rubbish and rotting weeds. 
And the will-o'-the-wisp, the substitute star. 
The ideal of Life, of " things as they are," 
Curled up his carcass and jerked up his knees, — 
His lamp flickered out in the first autumn breeze. 

And the placid old moon widely yawned, slyly blinked ; 
And the stars with a chuckle looked pond-ward, and 
winked ! 



THE WOLF CRY 

The Arctic moon hangs overhead; 

The wide white silence lies below. 
A starveling pine stands lone and gaunt, 

Black-penciled on the snow. 

Weird as the moan of sobbing winds, 
A lone long call floats up from the trail ; 

And the naked soul of the frozen North 
Trembles in that wail. 



37 



THE CABIN ON THE CLIFF 

The little cabin seems to wear 
Such a panic-stricken air, — 
Clinging perilously high 
Silhouetted on the sky. 

There is such a tragic fear 
In the furtive eyes that peer 
Down upon the ocean's jaw, 
Red and ravenous of maw. 

Such a terror in her soul 
When the casual pebbles roll, — 
Oh, the frantic nervous gripping, 
Fearful that her hands are slipping ! 

Such a never-ending dread 
Of the forest overhead, — 
Wondering when the inching spruce 
Will crowd her aching fingers loose. 



38 



THE FOG-BELL 

All the long night, all the long day, 

When the thick gray fogs of the sea were rolling, 
Where combers boom in the leaden gloom, 

I heard the lugubrious fog-bell tolling. 

All the long night, all the long day, 

With a sullen song and a voice grown weary, 

The slow-tongued bell at each long low swell, 
Complained of a life abysmally dreary. 

All the long night, all the long day, 

Rest from the tides! was the theme of her nioamng; 
But the thin-lipped surge, a pitiless urge, 

Cracked his white lash and jeered at her groaning. 



39 



THE GRANITE MOUNTAIN 

To C. S, 

I know a mountain, lone it lies 
Under wide blue Arctic skies. 

Gray against the crimson rags 
Of sunset loom its granite crags. 

Gray granite are the peaks that sunder 
The clouds, and gray the shadows under. 

Down the weathered gullies flow 
Waters from its crannied snow; 

Tumbling cataracts that roar 
Cannonading down the shore ; 

And rivulets that hurry after 
With a sound of silver laughter. 

Up its ramparts winds a trail 
To a clover-meadowed vale. 

High among the hills and woods 
Locked in lonely solitudes. 
40 



THE GRANITE MOUNTAIN 41 

Only wild feet can essay 

The perils of that cragged way. 

And here beneath the rugged shoulders 
Of the granite cliffs and boulders, 

In the valley of the sky 

Where tranquil twilight shadows lie. 

Hunted creatures in their flight 
Find a refuge for the night. 



DAKOTAH 

Vast is the silent far-flung plain, 
Shouldering its fields of rippling grain. 

Wide are the winds that hurry by, 
Out of the stretch of the prairie sky. 

And the far horizons seem to be 
But a hint of a Vast Infinity. 



42 



THE WHITE-THROAT 




Att 



day long 



fiddlin\ fiddlin', Jiddlin. 



Deep in the somber solitude. 
Where only curious stars intrude, 
In the sultry blight of August haze, 
Or the rain-washed air of April days, 
The white-throat flutes in cadence long 
His golden rivulet of song: 
" All-day-long-fiddlin^ fiddlin', fiddlin'J 

What joy he feels, what pride he takes 

In the simple tune he makes ! 

He never envies Robin's trills ; 

He never seems to care for frills — 

Just content in a humble way 

On his single golden string to play : 

" All-day-long-fiddHn', fiddlin', fiddlin'.' 

O lone drab singer ! never weary 
When other brilliant birds are dreary, 
Teach me my humble task to do 
With buoyant faith and courage true; 
With a gladsome heart in sun or rain 
To sing unheard the brave refrain : 
" All-day-long-fiddlin', fiddlin', fiddlin'.' 
43 



REFUGE 

When stars ride in on the wings of dusk, 

Out on the silent plain, 
After the fevered fret of day, 

I find my strength again. 

Under the million friendly eyes 
That smile in the lonely night. 

Close to the rolling prairie's heart, 
I find my heart for the fight. 

Out where the cool long winds blow free, 

I fling myself on the sod ; 
And there in the tranquil solitude 

I find my soul, — and God. 



44 



SWAMP-OWL 

A brooding pond in the hush of dusk, 

As black as the pools of night; 
Rimmed round with spires of somber spruce,- 

Gaunt ghosts in the phantom light. 

A beating of heavy wings in the dark; 

A rush from the dismal glen ; 
A sudden swoop, and the leaden wings 

Went beating back again. 

In the utter gloom of that sunken land. 

Never a creature stirred, 
As night beat into the sullen swamp 

With the wings of that ghostly bird. 



4S 



OF THESE FOUR THINGS I CANNOT WRITE 

Of these four Things I cannot write: 

After the scourge of the molten sands of the desert, 
After the sunken hot eyes and the panting tongue, — 
The thrill of the cool blue springs in the foothills, 
The cold-fingered dew on the lips parched and 

blazing. 
And the silvery tinkle of green glacial waters 
That sprinkle the throbbing brow. . . . 

After the anguish of hot leaden limbs on the portage. 
After the feverish days over deadland trails, — 

The repose of the gray-veiled and quiet-eyed twi- 
light. 
The shimmering haze of the blue mountain valley. 
And the tranquil blue deep of the pool where trem- 
ulous 
Sleep the calm swimming stars. . . . 

After the footfalls of sinister night in the gullies, 
After the ominous moan of the canyoned winds, — 
The touch of a quiet gray Presence beside me. 
The confident sense of Hands hovering about me, 
And the Call from the hills where the murmurous 

river 
Spills over the white cascades. . . . 

46 



OF THESE FOUR THINGS 47 

And when at last, struggling to utter 

The cry of these three glories, 

My pen shall cease to stutter across the page,— 

Shall be no longer a futile stammering thing, 

But a burning soul, articulate, — 

Then I shall sing! Oh, then I shall sing 

Of the glorious whole of these wild splendors! 

Oh, then I shall sing of the eyes, 

Of the dusky eyes of a Woman. 



THE GREAT DIVIDE 

When I drift out on the Silver Sea, 

O may it be 

A blue night 

With a white moon 

And a sprinkling of stars in the cedar tree ; 

And the silence of God, 

And the low call 

Of a lone bird, — 

When I drift out on the Silver Sea. 



48 



PART III 

CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

A Group of Indian Council Talks 



THE WINDS OF FIFTY WINTERS * 

The Weasel-Eye, the hawk-nosed one, 

With the long white heard and soft white hands, 

Arose before the Pillagers and Otter tails 

Who squatted by the council- fire. 

Fixing on his nose the little windows, 

And putting on his face a pretty smile, 

The Weasel-Eye " made talk, big talk ": 

THE WEASEL-EYE TALKS *. 

" My brothers, good red brothers. To he read with 

Brothers each and all, It/t^'Tnorid, 

By me, his honest trusted agent declamatory 

Whose heart is good to the Indian, ^^^nner. 

The Great White Chief sends greetings 
To his good red children — 
Ah! and many pretty presents! 

{Ho! 

Hi-yah ! Hi-yah ! 

How! How! How!) 

" Gaze ye ! — Flashing silver-glass 
And tinkling copper bells! 
And powder kegs and beads, 

*For supplementary notes on "The Winds of Fifty Win- 
ters" and other poems in Part III, see Appendix, page 71. 

51 



52 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

And tall black shining hats! 
Ye shall walk arrayed 
Like yon gorgeous blazing sun 
If ye but heed my counsel. 

(Ho! Ho! Ho!) 

" Go ye North ! 

Forsake these rolling hills; 

This vast, too-vast country. 

Forsake these wolf-infested forests, 

That Pale-Face tillers of the soil 

May lay their Iron-Roads 

And scratch the ground for harvests. 

Go ye North! to the barren lands, 

To the land of the marked-out ground. 

And though there be no moose 

Within its flame-swept timber, 

Nor whitefish in its waters. 

Nor patches of wild berries, 

Nor fields of nodding rice, 

Yet will ye be content 

For I will pay ye well ; 

To every warrior, guns, — 

Six beavers* worth; 

To every headman, blankets, — 

Red as yonder sky; 

To every chieftain, ponies, — 

Six, more or less. 

And there, in the marked-out North, 

Your tribe may eat and dance 

Forever and forever." 



THE WINDS OF FIFTY WINTERS 53 

" Gaze upon me, O my brothers, 

My good red brothers, 

And heed ye well my counsel ! 

The winds of fifty winters 

Have blown about my head, 

And, lo ! my hair is white with snow ! 

The winds of fifty winters 

Have blown about my head. 

And, lo! much wisdom lodged therein! 

And from the winds of fifty winters, 

Their wisdom, storms, and snows, 

Lo! I counsel ye: 

Sign ye this treaty! 

Take ye the presents ! 

Go ye to the North ! " 

In the council-grove long silence fell, 

Save for a little laughing wind 

That wandered in the pines. 

Then, sinuous and supple as the wildcat, 

Ah-nah-mah-kee , the '^ Thunder-Bolt" strode forward. 

And stood a moment silent — 

Straight as the Norway pine 

That rears its head above yon timber; 

And in his eyes the many little lightnings Hashed, 

But on the corner of his tnouth a sunbeam played: 

THUNDER-BOLT TALKS I 

" O my brothers, m}^ red brothers, 
Brothers each and all. 



54 



CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 



The Weasel-Eye has spoken. 

He has opened up his honey mouth; 

And from the heart that is so good 

He has poured his sounding words. 

His heap-much pretty talk 

Is like the tinkling stream 

Of babbling sweet-water that gurgles 

Down from the mountain springs. 

But like the sweet- water of the brook, 

That stops its pretty running 

In the swamp and stands one sleep 

In the deep and quiet pools, 

The pretty words turn bitter-sour. 



To he read sim- 
ply and quietly 
with an under- 
current of 
humor and 
innuendo. 



" Gaze upon me, O my brothers, 

My good red brothers ! 

The winds of fifty winters 

Have blown about my head, 

And, lo! my hair is white with snow! 

The winds of fifty winters 

Have blown about my head, 

And lo! much wisdom lodged therein! 

The winds of fifty winters 

Have blown about my head — 

But, lo ! they have not blown away my brains ! 



To be read in a 
/I or id, pompous 
manner. 



I am done 1 " 



(Ho! 
Hi! Hi! 
How! How! 



How!) 



CHIEF BEAR'S-HEART "MAKES TALK" 

Agent-man from Keetch-ie O-gi-ma, To he read 

Our Big W'ite Chief, t^l^t 

De heart of all de 'Cheebway deep resonant 

T 1. -u ^4. tones and in a 

In my tribe are good to you; ^^^^^ ,„^„„^^ 

My people want your heart broken by 

Be good to all de Eenzhuns. ^stZufed ""tmo- 

tion. 

In Summer-of-de-Many-Rains, 

Comes Long-Blade soldier, Major Rice, 

An' Black-Robes priest, for mak'-um treaty. 

Dey mak'-um talk in council, so : 

" 'Cheebway, 'Cheebway, mak'-um treaty ; 

Walk on far-away reservation an' live ; 

You go new reservation, you get-um plenty t'ing 

From Keetch-ie O-gi-ma: 

Get-um plenty grub an' money; 

Plenty t'ing for belly an' for back." 

Den Long-Blade stick-um one hand 

On Big-Black-Book an' treaty-paper, 

An' raise-um oder hand to Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, 

De w'ite man's Big Spirit, an' say: 

" 'Cheebway, all dose t'ing on treaty sure will be ! " . . . 

Ho! Eenzhun scratch-um paper; 

Stick-um t'umb on treaty; 

An' walk on reservation. 

55 



56 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

Wat's come treaty now! Ugh? 

No got-um plenty grub! 
'Cheebway got-um small flat belly; 
No got-um w'ite man's big fat belly! 

Comes soon de Winter-Maker, 

Blowing on de river wit' hees icy breath 

An' making dem stand still IVith repressed 

Wit' sleep beneat' de snow. ZThcril^in 

An' Nort' Wind whistle crazy-wild power. 

T'rough crying spruce an' cedar; 

An' Miik-wa, ol' fat bear, he sleep 

An' sheever in hees hole; 

An' Pee-nay, hungry pa'tridge. 

Bury in de balsam snow-drif. 

Now walk on Eenzhun wee-ga-wam! 

'Cheebway sit dere hungry, — 

In winter no can get-um grub lak moose 

Who paw big hole in snow for plenty moss. 

No got-um plenty money ; 

No got-um w'ite man's grub. 

Squaw, she got-um sick, — 

Bad osh-kee-shee-gwa-pee-nay, — 

She sick on eye lak devil-hell. 

Squaw-sich, little gal, 

She got-um measles-sick, 

De Spotted-Sickness on de face. 

Little boy, he got-um heap-sick, — 

Bad 6h-pun-nah-pee-nay, — 

Bad Coughing-Sickness ; 



BEAR'S-HEART "MAKES TALK" 5; 

Ugh! He spit all-tamM— 

Got-um sick on lung, an' hot on cheek; 

Got-um eye she blaze lak wildcat! . . . 

W*y should be dose t'ing? 

Ugh ! Go w'ite man's town : Slowly and 

TT i. 1 .L u brokenly with a 

He got-um plenty grub; „^,^ of irony. 

Hees belly laugh wit' grub ! 

VV'y should be diff'rence, ha-aaah? 

Mebbe w'ite man's God he want-um diff'rence ! Ugh ! 

Mebbe Ma-ni-do no lak-um Eenzhun chil'en ! Hah ! 

Mebbe Ma-ni-do f orget-um Eenzhun chil'en ! Ugh ! 

Mebbe so ! Mebbe so ! . . . 

Mebbe no! With dramatic 

Look-um straight! 

Talk-um straight! 

Ai-yee! Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do 

He no f orget-um 'Cheebway Eenzhun! 

Eenzhun chil'en, good chil'en! 

Big Spirit lak-um Eenzhun chil'en 

Jus' so much he lak-um Long- Knife. Slowly, with 

r zj I zj t subtle changes 

{Ho! Mo! of emotion 

How! How!) from humor 

T J. n^ ^ 1 and ironv to 

Inspector 1 aylo , sarcasm ^ and 

In council of olden tarn' bitterness. 

De Long-Blade stick-um hand on Big-Black-Book, 
An' raise-um oder hand to sky an' say : 
*' All dose t'ing on treaty-paper sure will be ! " 

Mebbe. ... 
Mebbe. . . . 



=;8 



CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 



Mebbe he was only fool for fun ! Hah? 
Ho! Long-Blade only fool for fun! Ho! 

Mebbe so! . . . Mebbe so! . . . 

Mebbe hees tongue talk-um 
Little bit crooked! Ho? 

Mebbe so! . . . Mebbe so! . . . 



Mebbe he got-uni forks in tongue, 
Wit' little poison-gland ! Ugh ! 
Eenzhun t'ink — 
He lie! . . . 



With intense 
dramatic force 
— somewhat re- 
pressed. 



Look on me! . . . 
Look on me! ... 
Look on me! . . . 

Talk-um straight today! 

No got-um double-snake-tongue! 

I have said it! 



{Ho! 

How! How! 

Ho! Ho! Ho!) 



LITTLE-CARIBOU MAKES "BIG TALK" 



Boo-zhoo ! Boo-zhoo ! 

Me, Ah-deek-koons, I mak-um big talk. 

Me, ol' man; I'm got-um sick on knee 

In rainy wedder w'en I'm walk. Ugh! 

Me, lak moose w'at's ol', 

I'm drop-um plenty toot'! 

Yet I am big man ! Ho ! 

An' I am talk-um big ! Ho ! 



To he read 
brokenly in a 
high-pitched 
voice with a 
touch of queru- 
lousness and 
Petulance, and 
an occasional 
note of 
drollery. 



(Hi-yee! Blow lak moose, oV man! 
Ho! Ho! 

Hi-yi! Little-Caribou him talk 
Lak 0-mah-kah-kce, dose Bullfrog: 
Big moiif, big belly, 
No can fight!) 



Ugh ! Close mout', young crazy buck ! 

You stop-um council-talk, 

You go 'way council! 

Sit wit' squaw ! 

You lak little poh-toong, 

Lak pollywog tad-pole : 

No can jump-um 

Over little piece mud; 

59 



6o CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

Can only shake-um tail 
Lak crazy-dam-fool ! . . . 

Keetch-ie O-gi-ma, Big Preshiden', 

He got-um plenty t'ougbts in head ; 

Me, Caribou, Vm got-um plenty-good t'ougbts, 

Got-um plenty-good t'ougbts in bead. 

Yet Eenzbun-Agent all-tam* saying : 

"Ab-deek-koons, be crazy ol' fool ! '* 

Ugb ! He crazy ol' fool ! 

Keetcb-ie O-gi-ma long tam' ago 

Was say in Pine Point Treaty: 

" All de 'Cbeebway sbould be farmer ; 

All will get from Wasbin'ton gov'ment 

Good allotment farm land, 

One bondred-sixty acre eacb." Ho! 

Ho! Eenzbun scratcb-um treaty ! 

Stick-um t'umb on treaty ! 

Wat's come treaty? Hab? 

Eenzbun got-um bondred-sixty acre, 

But got-um too mucb little pieces, — 

Pieces scattered over lake 

Lak leaves sbe's blow by wind. 

In tam'rack swamp by Moose Tail Bay 

He got-um forty acre piece. 

Ten mile away, on Lake of Cut-Foot Sioux, 

In mush-kaig an' in rice-field, 

He got-um forty acre more. 

On Bowstring Lake, sbe's forty-mile away. 



LITTLE-CARIBOU MAKES "BIG TALK" 6i 

In sand and pickerel weed. 

He got-um forty acre more. 

Hondred mile away, on Lac La Croix, 

Were lumberman is mak' big dam 

For drive-um log, — an' back-um up water 

All over Eenzhun allotment land, — 

He got-um forty acre more, — all under lake ! 

How can Eenzhun be good farmer ! Ugh ? 

He's got-um land all over lake ! 

He's got-um land all under lake! 

For Eenzhun be good farmer 

Eenzhun should be good for walking under water! 

Should be plow hees land wit' clam-drag! 

Should be gadder potato crops wit' fish-net! 

For Eenzhun be good farmer 

Eenzhun should be fish! 

Ugh! 

I have said it! 

{Ho! Ho! Ho! 

Hi! Hi! Plenty-big talk! 

How!) 



WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS 

Boo-zhoo ! Inspector Taylor ! 

I, Wah-wee-yah-tun-ung, Chief Whirling-Rapids, 

Make this talk, " big talk," for all my people 

Sitting there in the pines. To he read 

stolidly and 
monotonously 

In eighteen eighty-nine i^^ith deep resc 

The Long-Blade, Major Rice, ''''''* '^"'^• 

Called council with the Ojibways on Pine Point, 
And there he made this big and pretty talk: 
K'tchee-gah-mee Indians, men of the land of the Big- 
Water, 
Today we will make a good treaty; 
Go to the marked-out reservation; 
Here will come no white men; 
Here will ye hunt and dance in peace. 
Free from all the Long-Knives." 

Ho! Good talk! Pretty talk! 

{Ho! 
Ugh! 
Ho! Ho!) 

Ugh ! Talk now of the Treaty of Pine Point ! 
Comes too much white man on the reservation ! 

62 



WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS 63 

My people know the story ! 

It is marked on the slashed pine, 

And the burned timbers, 

And the scratched earth. 

Came the trappers for our beaver; 

Came the crazy Iron-Roads, 

And the crazy Fire- Wagons, 

Blowing Devil's-Noise, 

Puffing Devil's-Breath — 

Ugh! 

Came the loggers with their axes. 

With their flashing iron axes; 

And our mighty forests trembled 

From the cursings — from the clashings 

Of the irons everywhere — 

Ugh! 

Came the rat-eyed little traders 

With their shining silver clocks, 

Their eesh-kwo-day-wah-boo. 

Their plenty Fire- Water, 

Their plenty Devil's- Spit — 

Ugh! 

Came many, many Long-Knives, 

Pretty on the outside. 

Rotten in the heart; 

From the many, many towns 

Came many waves of white men- — 

Big wave, big wave. 

Wave, wave, wave. 

And my people wither like the oak-leaves; 

And hunger stalks about my village ; 



64 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

And sickness spots my little children; From this point 

And often in the Moon-of-Freezing ihoJidTe read 

The chantings for the dead are as many -^th a stfstained 

As the wailings of the starving panthers. li^X' increasing 

Ai-yeee ! Pity us ! «« volume and 

Ai-yeee! Pity us! power.''^ 

Little wave, little wave, 

Big wave, big wave, 

Wave, wave, wave, — 

So comes the white man in the North, 

Like the waters of the ocean. 

On the waters of that sea walks the Indian 

In his frail and battered Chee-mon, 

In his dancing birch canoe. 

And he paddles from the dawn to the twilight. 

Comes the little rippling water on the bow. 

Little white fingers rippling on the birch-bark. 

Rippling white fingers blowing in the breeze. 

Comes little wave of white men. 

Little wave, little wave, 

Many pretty waves. 

Comes bigger wave of white men, 
Bigger wave of white men. 
Big waves, big waves. 
Tumbling into the silver shore, 
Rumbhng as they come; 
Foaming, roaring, leaping billows. 
Bending like the weeping willows, 
Rolling up and tumbling over. 



WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS 65 

Rolling, 

Rolling, 

Rolling up and rolling under, 

Growling with a mighty thunder, — 

Higher, higher, wildly leaping higher — 

Flashing tongues across the sky, 

Fire in the crackling clouds, fire! — 

Wave, wave, wave. 

Rolling up and tumbling over. 

Shattering silver spray 

On the Indian in the Chee-mon, 

Battering iron fists upon his birch-bark, — 

Crazy laughing crazy-waters, 

Crazy hands and crazy arms 

Splashing wildly in the wind, 

Crashing madly on the tossing birch-bark. 

Smashing wildly at the wailing 'Cheebway . . , 

And the Indian walking on the waters 

Flings his chantings to the Spirits in the sky: 

" Hah-eee-00000! Kectch-ie Md-ni-do, 

I sing the chant of death! 

O pity me I To be read with 

And stop the crazy-waters, ?*!!&'"' 

Ai-yee! the rolling waves of white men, . . . 

pity me! 

Hah-eee-ooooo! Kectch-ie Md-ni-do! 

1 am asking with a good heart 
That 

"Ai-yee! The Spirit cannot hear me; 
Nothing does he hear 



65 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

But the clashing iron axes. ^rt'cTViih 

The rumblings of the waters, dramatic force 

And the cursings in the timber on the sHgMy re-^ 

shore. . . . wailing. 

" Ai-yee ! He hurls his balls of fire, 
Fiercely crashing in the timber, — 
In the timber 
There is Death! 

" O pity me ! 

** Ai-yee ! He lashes at his clouds. 
At his frightened shivering clouds. 
With his whips 
Of cracking wind I 

" O pity me ! 

*' Ai-yee ! He lunges with his spear, 
With his double-lightning spear, 
At the trembling 
Little Chee-mon! 



" O pity me ! 
O pity me! 



»» 



Look! He plunges at the wailing ^Cheebway- 
Look!— With crazy hands of crazy-waters! . 



WHIRLING-Rx\PIDS TALKS 67 

Lo ! and Death walks with the Indian 
On the bottom of the lake, 
Beneath the crazy-waters, 
Crashing up and rolling over . . . 
Crashing up . . . and rolling over . . . 
Crashing up . . . and rolling over . . . 
Rolling . . . rolling ... 
Rolling over . . . over . . . 
Rolling . . . rolling . . . rolling . . . 



Now the dripping sun is laughing in the rainbow-sky, 

On the quivering silver birches on the land ; 

And the laughing little waters with their little white 

- , Quietly with 

feet, Q iiit^ 

Run pattering on the shifting yellow sand. 

But the Devil- Spirit, Much-ie Ma-ni-do, 

Is walking on the bottom of the lake, 

In the drifting tangled weeds. 

In the water shimmering green 

Where the fishes flash 

And shiver in the sun. 

He is shaking his big belly, 

He is winking his red eye 

At the Long-Knife who stands chuckling 

Where the waters wash the shore, 

At the buzzard-taloned white man 

Who stands gazing at the bottom of the waters. 

Ugh 1 Crazy Long-Knife ! . . . 



68 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

Ugh ! Crazy Devil ! . . . Quietly and 

brokenly — zaith 
sharp changes 

Ai-ee! Drifting body of emotion. 

That lies tangled in the weeds ! . . . 

I have said it! 



{Ho! 

How! How! How! 

Ho!) 



APPENDIX 



/ / 



APPENDIX 

The following supplementary notes concerning the 
legends and superstitions which form the background 
of certain of the poems of Indian theme in Parts I 
and III may prove helpful to the reader. It is sug- 
gested, therefore, that if he wishes to grasp their 
full meaning, he read the notes in the Appendix 
before reading the poems in these two groups. 



FLYING MOCCASINS 

THE BLUE DUCK 

" The Blue Duck " is a poetic interpretation of an 
American Indian medicine dance. In early autumn 
the tribe, which has gathered in the dancing-ring, is 
supposed to have placed on a pole by the shore of 
Ah-bi-too-bi (Half-full-of-water), — a lake adjoining 
the Indian village, — a crudely carved wooden duck. 
The ceremony is begun by the drummers who beat 
monotonously upon the drums. The singers and the 
dancers then begin to stamp and to shout and to 
grunt, and finally to dance. The chief medicine men 
— priests, " mystery men," who by virtue of their 
special, powerful medicine songs and their rare " med- 

71 



yz MANY MANY MOONS 

icines " are thought to have supernatural power in in- 
fluencing the spirits with which the earth, the sea, 
and the sky are inhabited — finally break into a song 
and sometimes a chant, in which they invoke Keetch-ie 
Ma-ni-do, " The Big Spirit," to send down from the 
North a big flight of ducks for the fall hunt, " to 
make a good duck season." 

" Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do," a word which appears in 
many of the poems, means literally, " Big Spirit," — 
broadly, " The Great Mystery," " The Big God." In 
the mind of the American Indian of pagan faith, the 
world is full of spirits, good and evil; the spirits of 
beasts, of birds, and of the dead; the spirits of the 
four winds, of the storm and of thunder and of 
lightning, — the several lieutenants of the " Big Spirit." 
But above all these minor deities rules Keetch-ie 
Ma-ni-do, the All-Powerful One. 

" The Blue Duck " and the other interpretations 
of Indian dances should be read aloud. Their rhyth- 
mic beat should be maintained vigorously and stead- 
ily, except where the dancing ceases and periods of 
chanting are noted. 



CHIPPEWA FLUTE SONG 

Notwithstanding the seeming chaos and lack of mel- 
ody in Indian song, the Indian is very musical. Every 
phase of his life and every aspiration finds expression 
in some lyric burst of music. There are religious 
songs, hunting songs, and medicine songs; dream 



APPENDIX yi 

songs, lullabies, and love songs ; war-dance, pipe-dance, 
and social dance songs ; gambling-game songs, songs 
narrating personal achievements, songs to accompany 
gifts and songs of thanks, songs for the spirits, songs 
for the dead, and songs to heal the sick, — songs with- 
out number. In all his music there are many weird, 
haunting qualities, — certain qualities and certain mo- 
tives which American musicians might profitably 
study, and develop into a distinctive American con- 
tribution to musical history. Indian music may be 
instrumental, — as for example the music of the Bee- 
bee-gwun, the Indian flute, — or it may be vocal. The 
latter may be accompanied, as in the dances, the medi- 
cine songs, and similar ceremonies, by drums and 
rattles, or it may be unaccompanied. 

All Indian music, despite its seeming formlessness, 
its complexity, and its cacophony, is for the most part 
quite simple, and fairly definite in form. In most 
of his songs he uses but few simple notes, and these 
usually in downward progression, beginning with high 
falsetto tones and ending in low guttural sounds, 
punctuated with an occasional slurred note, a slide, 
a quaver, a wail, a call, or an explosive shout. 

Although the " Chippewa Flute Song " will yield 
its melody through any one of several simple methods 
of interpretation that will occur to the reader, if in 
interpreting the poem aloud he will improvise his 
own melody, merely bearing in mind the suggestion 
that he should chant the words softly with an occa- 
sional downward slide at the end of every sentence 
— not line — and at other points where the voice natu- 



74 MANY MANY MOONS 

rally falls, he will most accurately catch the spirit 
of the poem and of the original situation which I 
have sought to express. 

THE SQUAW-DANCE 

" The Squaw-Dance," or " Woman's Dance," often 
called the *' Give-Away Dance," is a poem written 
from the point of view of the " outsider " and de- 
scriptive of a very common Chippewa social dance 
in which both men and women may participate. In 
the United States, bands of Indians often gather at 
some reservation village to celebrate the Fourth of 
July with a big ** war-dance " to which white men 
are invited. Generally, however, the " war-dance " 
is really the rollicking, social " Squaw-Dance " ; the 
celebration is called a " war-dance " often for the 
benefit of the gullible, thrill-hunting tourist to whom 
all Indian music is alike. 

In the course of the dancing it is customary for 
the Indian to present a gift, — a bit of tobacco, a 
trinket, a pair of moccasins, — to some friend, either 
a man or a woman. Whereupon the recipient must 
dance with the friend thus complimenting him, and 
return the honor with a gift of equal value. And 
thus with these frequent interruptions due to the 
" giving away " of presents, the celebration continues 
all day with much vigorous dancing, loud laughter, 
and lusty singing. The Squaw-Dance celebration has 
no place for a melancholy, moribund person, or for 
a dour, dyspeptic misanthrope. 



APPENDIX 75 

BEAT AGAINST ME NO LONGER 

In this interpretation of an Indian love song the 
lines beginning, " Be not as the flat-breasted squaw- 
sich . . . who hides three sleeps in the forest . . .," 
refer to an old Algonquian custom that a young girl 
in the period of puberty must leave the village in 
shame and must live alone for a certain period of 
time in a wigwam in the wilderness. 

THE CONJURER 

The chee-sah-kee, the conjurer or juggler, is a sort 
of mystery-man who works in league with the bad 
spirits and Much-ie Ma-ni-do, the Devil-Spirit, rather 
than with the good spirit-helpers of the medicine men, 
— although some conjurers may be both chee-sah-kee 
and medicine men. This magician is regarded by the 
older superstitious folk, — and by many pagan Indians 
today, — as possessing the power to establish a league 
with the evil spirits, whereby he may perform great 
feats of magic and of spiritualism. In one of his 
performances the juggler is bound with ropes of tough 
bark and is placed in the chee-sah-kan, his specially 
built teepee, the poles of which are so stout and so 
deeply planted in the earth that they cannot be moved 
by a human being. The conjurer then chants his 
" magic song," uses his " charms," invokes the aid 
of the spirits, and thereby performs the feats sug- 



^6 MANY MANY MOONS 

gested in this poem, — if his medicine is " strong." (If 
a conjurer or medicine man ever fails, it is not the 
fault of the rehgion, or of the philosophy ; the medi- 
cine was " bad," or some jealous spirit treacherously 
worked against him.) " The Conjurer " is a very free 
interpretation of the chant which the chee-sah-kee 
sings as he lies bound in the wigwam and performs 
his conjurings. The short, isolated, indented stanzas 
in the poem are the conjurer's " asides " to his Indian 
audience. 

Naturally one may be skeptical about the power 
of a man to work these wonders. Nevertheless, they 
are actually performed by Indian " doctors " today. 
My Indian friend, Ah-zhay-waince, " Other-Side," a 
medicine man of the Pigeon River Reservation, can 
perform these feats and many others as mysterious. 



RED-ROCK. THE MOOSE-HUNTER 

When the primitive Indian of the Canadian North 
went hunting, he " called " or lured moose by two 
methods. Sometimes with a bit of birch-bark he 
would imitate the call of a moose. This scheme still 
survives among woods Indians, and is familiar to the 
white man. In the other lesser-known method, dur- 
ing the quiet evening when it is the habit of moose 
to come out of the " bush " to the lakes, to drink, to 
feed upon the lilies, and to plunge into the water 
in order to shake off the moose-flies, the deer-flies, 
and the " no-see-ums," the moose-hunting Indian 



APPENDIX ^y 

would wade into the water of a " plug-hole " or " good 
moose-lake/' Here for hours he would imitate the 
splashings and the drippings of feeding moose, on 
the theory tliat moose in the vicinity would in the 
quiet evening hear the sounds and be attracted by 
them. This primitive, little-known method lies at 
the foundation of the poem, " Red-Rock, the Moose- 
Hunter." 



RAIN SONG 

This interpretation of an Algonquian-Lenape medi- 
cine song for " making rain " is based upon an old 
Indian superstition. During this medicine dance a 
buckskin sack containing small mica-like scales is 
placed on a boulder by a stream near the dancing- 
ground. These bits of mica, — the " rain-medicine," 
— are believed to be scales from the body of the legen- 
dary Great Homed Sea Monster. It is believed that 
if these scales are thus exposed during the ceremony, 
the Thunderer and his allies, the Thunder-Spirits and 
the Rain-Spirits, who loathe the Sea Monster, will 
come with the fury of their storms and clouds and 
rains to attack their traditional enemy who has the 
impudence to lift his head out of the stream, and 
the effrontery to expose a part of his body to the 
gaze of the Thunder-Beings. 

The conversational section at the close of the poem 
is not a part of the song proper. I have added these 
typical colloquial " asides " to illustrate the contrast 



78 MANY MANY MOONS 

between the loftiness and the ideaHzations often at- 
tained in Indian song and ceremony, and the com- 
monplaceness and the reaHties of much of his extra- 
ceremonial, colloquial talk. Similarly, my desire to 
keep the characters in this book true to type, a type 
that is peculiar in its combination of idealism and 
materialism, the beautiful and the crass or vulgar, the 
primitive and the modern, — this desire accounts for 
many of the incongruities, the strange idioms, and 
the inelegant phrases in " Rain Song " and in certain 
other poems. 

The " Rain Song " most clearly illustrates the phi- 
losophy and the practices of the medicine men. Many 
Indians, even in this day, have utter faith in the 
power of the medicine men to accomplish miracles of 
healing, jugglery, and wonder-working. I have al- 
ready commented briefly upon their practices ; by vir- 
tue of their rare medicines, — herbs, clays, skins, sub- 
stances of all sorts having " power," — and with the 
aid of their medicine songs which came to them in a 
dream from the spirits, these " mystery men " are 
powerful with the gods. In addition, every medicine 
man has a special " helper " and adviser, a spirit, — 
generally that of some bird or beast, — with whom he 
constantly communes, and of whom he is but the 
mouthpiece. To illustrate, the night preceding the 
day set for the ceremonial feast at which I was to 
be christened or blessed with a Chippewa name, my 
Indian godfather, Ah-zhay-waince, *' Other-Side," 
had a dream in which his special spirit-guide advised 
him concerning the name that I should bear. And 



APPENDIX 79 

after the feast, when Ah-zhay-waince blessed me 
with the name Pay-shig-ah-deek, " Lone-Caribou," the 
old' mystery-man made a talk in eulogy of his special 
ma-ni-do and declared that he was acting merely as 
the agent of his " strong " spirit-helper, the " Thunder- 
Bird," one of the extremely powerful Thunder-Gods 
mentioned in the " Rain Song." Thus because of their 
power to secure the influence and the advice of these 
" strong helpers " and the other ghosts of the spirit 
world, the medicine men may be called upon to ap- 
pease the wrath of the spirits in times of drought; 
or to drive out of a sick Indian the bad spirits which 
it is believed possess him; to regulate the weather; 
or to invoke the aid of the gods whenever the tribe 
enters upon some great task. The utter faith of som.e 
of the older folk in the power of the medicine man 
is illustrated by the following incident : 

One day I journeyed to the wigwam of Mis-kwee- 
mee-giz-zi, " Blood-Eagle," an old Chippewa (some- 
times written and pronounced " Ojibway ") to induce 
him to join in a canoe trip. I found the old fellow 
sitting in the sun in front of his cedar shack, morose 
and stolid, with a high fever and other significant 
symptoms. In reply to a question concernmg the 
nature of the trouble, old "Eagle" grunted, "I 
got-um 'sumbtion " (consumption). 

" Then why don't you see the doctor at the settle- 

" I go w'ite man doctor ten sleep ago, he replied ; 
"no damn good! I give-um wan dolla', he give-um 
wan glass bottle,— no-good med'cine! TomxDrrow I 



8o MANY MANY MOONS 

go Eenzhun med'cine man. He sing 'way Bad Spirits 
in lung. In tVee sleep — me — I go hunt wit' you." 

Needless to say Mis-kwee-mee-giz-zi didn't turn up 
for the trip in " t'ree sleep." The old man will never 
hunt again, except in the Big Hunting Ground. 

CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 

THE WINDS OF FIFTY WINTERS 

The council is a meeting at which important tribal 
matters are discussed, a sort of informal Indian legis- 
lative assembly. In the old war days councils were 
frequently called between tribes to settle differences, 
or between Indians and white men for the making 
of treaties, or among the Indians of one tribe to de- 
cide tribal and local questions. In these modern days 
the meetings are generally held for the settlement of 
problems arising between the Indians and the Federal 
government of which the Indians are legal wards. If 
the United States Government, through its Indian 
Service in the Department of Interior, wishes to in- 
vestigate tribal conditions or Indian grievances, or 
desires to determine tribal questions and policies, a 
council is called. At this meeting appear representa- 
tives of the government and spokesmen for the In- 
dians, — generally chiefs and headmen, — who state their 
cases in " council talks." 

The Indian audiences at these councils are very 
quiet, attentive, and respectful, — more courteous than 
the average audience of white men. They are un- 



APPENDIX 8i 

demonstrative except for an occasional grunt of ap- 
proval, — represented in the poems in this group by 
the exclamations of " Ho ! Ho ! " and " How ! " in 
italics and parentheses, — or an occasional gruff and 
guttural " Ugh ! " or grunt of disapproval or disgust. 
" The Winds of Fifty Winters " is a poetic version 
of a famous Chippewa council which is recalled by 
the older folk among the Chippewas with many 
chuckles. 



CHIEF BEAR'S-HEART " MAKES TALK " 
LITTLE-CARIBOU MAKES " BIG TALK " 

The remaining poems in this group are poetic coun- 
cil talk interpretations suggested by speeches made 
at councils held by the government and Chip- 
pewa Indians for the discussion of certain alleged 
violations of the " Treaty of 1889," "The Treaty of 
1854 " and other treaties. Many of the grievances 
expressed in these monologues obviously represent 
but one point of view, the Indian's version of the 
dispute. Nevertheless, although many of his com- 
plaints and hardships are due to misunderstanding, 
to government red tape, or to the Indian's own weak- 
nesses and defects, and are therefore often unreason- 
able and prejudiced, there is generally in his cause 
a proper share of truth and adequate grounds for 
complaint. 

In order to give to the original Indian utterance 
clearness, coherence, and completeness, any Anglicized 



82 MANY MANY MOONS 

version of a council talk must contain some of the 
graces of the white man's language, and some of its 
nuances of diction and idiom. Although such inter- 
pretations may gain in clarity, they necessarily lose 
much of the original Indian flavor, certain crude, 
rugged poetic qualities of the original expression in 
the Chippewa language, with its small but exceed- 
ingly suggestive vocabulary limited to strong nouns, 
strong verbs, and compact, colorful phrases, idioms, 
and figures. In order, therefore, to catch these more 
primitive poetic qualities, even though it be at the 
loss of other virtues, the two poems, " Chief Bear's- 
Heart 'Makes Talk,'" and "Little-Caribou Makes 
* Big Talk,' " are written in the dialect spoken by 
some of the reservation Indians of the North, — on the 
theory that this broken, labored, colorful pigeon- 
English of the remote Indian more accurately regis- 
ters certain elements of the strange charm and the 
rugged power of Chippewa oratory. 

The phrases " Boo-zhoo ! " " Boo-zhoo, boo-zhoo ! " 
and " Boo-zhoo nee-chee ! " are forms of the friendly 
salutation that is common among the Chippewas. 
They are apparently corruptions of the French " Bon- 
jour!" of the Canadian-French voyageurs and cour- 
eurs-des-bois, many of whom have mingled with the 
Chippewas and have married into the tribe. 

In the days of the old frontier the Indian was 
greatly impressed by the uniforms and the sabers of 
the cavalry officers. Therefore he spoke of soldiers 
as " Long-Blades," or *' Long-Knives " ; and he fre- 
quently used these terms to designate all white men. 



APprK'^'X: 83 

Thus the expression *' Long-Blades " in these poems 
means soldiers and white men. 



LITTLE-CARIBOU MAKES " BIG TALK " 

The American Indian is usually very deferential 
and courteous to the aged, not only at councils but 
at all ceremonies. In this poem, therefore, the in- 
terruptions by the young. Indians, the " asides," and 
the sallies (represented in the poem by the indented 
stanzas in italics and parentheses) and the ensuing 
amusing colloquy between the shrewd patriarch, Little- 
Caribou, and his young hecklers, are rather unusual. 

It is commonly believed that the Indian lacks hu- 
mor; that he never laughs or jokes; that he is always 
the taciturn, sullen, stern type of the theatrical Indian. 
The idea is erroneous. Although in formal meetings 
and in his dealings with the white man the Indian 
is generally a man of a few simple, dignified, stern 
words, among his own people he laughs often and 
loud. Moreover, the women and children seem to 
be forever laughing and joking and giggling over 
nothing. Among the Indians, especially among the 
older folk, there are many droll characters that have 
a subtle sense of humor in addition to the dignity, 
the shrewdness, and the vigor which most of the better 
types of Indian possess. The poem, " Little-Caribou 
Makes * Big Talk,' " illustrates this little-known side 
of Indian character and this not uncommon Indian 
type. 



84 MANY MANY MOONS 

WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS 

The allegory, "Whirling-Rapids Talks," illustrates 
the tendency of the Indian to symbolize all the ex- 
periences of life. This personification of nature, of 
every bird that soars and every beast that walks or 
crawls, and this symbolizing of life by moon and 
sun, by water, thunder, and lightning, and by the 
star-people of the sky, — these are of the essence of 
his poetic thought. Because of his conception of the 
walking, the swimming, and the green-growing things 
of the wilderness, it is safe to say that no race has 
ever established a contact with nature more spiritual 
or more vital than has the American Indian. 



THE END 



